When Two Are Forgotten
by LunesWraith
Summary: Arthur isn't sociable, and he isn't outgoing. In fact, he is a bitter recluse who hasn't faced society in such a long time, that it seems to have forgotten him completely. It takes a mysterious American teen to teach him the real implications of this.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

The dull hum of the TV was the only thing Arthur wanted to hear that evening. No late night screaming from the neighbour's kids, no incessant beeping of passing cars, and certainly no damn people knocking on his door asking for something or other. He was sick of this country before he even came here, and he spent as much time as possible in the sanctuary of his strictly _British_ house. No Americans. No kids.

_*ding-dong* _

God damn it.

He decided to ignore it, they usually give up. Probably just some scouts asking for money for brownies, or brownies for money, whatever. He expected the adults of the road had told their kids to avoid this particular detached house, but apparently someone didn't get the message.

Another ring.

"Go away, no one's home." He muttered, head cocked to one side as he stared blankly at the TV. He wondered dully if he should switch his tea for brandy for the night, but he figured it was still slightly too early. He breathed out a long sigh he hadn't realised he had in him.

Yet another ring.

He growled impatiently and stood to make his way towards the door, shuffling past spindly coffee tables and ornamentals cluttering the living room space. He supposed they might be considered quite old-fashioned, but every time an aunt or some great grandfather dies, he's the one to take their antiques. His family didn't have the heart to just throw them out and they never got around to selling them off, so they ended up sending them to Arthur's house; piling up in almost every available space.

He reached the door and spent a good five minutes unbolting it from the top of the door all the way to the bottom, and said hoarsely "Alright, alright! Hold your frigging horses" as another infuriating _*ding-dong* _rang in his ears.

He cracked the door open. "What?" He said bluntly, glaring at the blue-eyed teenager littering his front door-step.

His forlorn face immediately lit up, and a bright annoying voice started, "Hey, I'm handing out flyers for my bro's new coffee shop down the road and-" Arthur slammed the door in his face, and smirked at the cracked white paint for a while before turning away. He reckoned it wouldn't be too bad if he just added a bit of brandy to the tea. It was about four, after all.

_*ding-dong* _

Arthur turned around to glare at the door, baffled by the boy's persistence. He stalked over and pulled the door open to yell at the brat, until he was interrupted.

"Hi there, you must have accidentally slipped or something." He watched Arthur with something akin to entertainment behind his glasses, and Arthur felt his temper flare. _No, no, he's just some kid, and he obviously doesn't live around this area._

"Anyway, like I was saying, my brother just opene-" Arthur had the pleasure of once again slamming the door in the insistent American's face, and was just about to return to the living room again, when-

The door rang three more times, one after another.

He huffed impatiently. _Who does that brat think he is? _He stomped over to the door, knocking down a rack of vintage records before almost ripping the door of it's hinges.

"Go away kid." He hissed, leaning out into the cold winter air to glare at the exuberant looking teen, who, to his utter annoyance, grinned back. Arthur vaguely noted passers by watching him a little oddly, and he reminded himself why he hated going outside. If it wasn't his accent, it was his eyebrows, and if it wasn't his eyebrows, it was his surly attitude.

"I just wanted to tell you, that my brother opened-"

"Your brother opened a bloody coffee shop down the god damned road! I know, now would you kindly remove yourself from my doorstep, _thank you_." He slammed the door a third time, spending a good five minutes grumbling and cursing all the way back to the sofa, knocking over piles and stacks of god-knows-what in his haste to get away from the door.

He slumped back in his seat, knocking off a collection of 1950's English beer mats from the armrest. He muttered more curses as he bent to pick them all back up, trying to forget about the irritating confrontation with the American teen. He just wanted to be alone, to be allowed to sew or drink tea or watch as much telly as he wanted without the damn interruption of stupid kids, with their stupid flyers and religions-

_*ding-dong*_

He would ignore it. He couldn't ring the doorbell all day. There were other houses down this street, after all, and he would eventually have to go home. He leant back into his chair, wondering exactly where the wooden hat rack beside the TV actually came from; he didn't even remember which deceased family member had owned such an ancient thing.

Another ring from the doorbell, and Arthur's eyebrow twitched as he tipped a little extra brandy into his tea.

Several consecutive rings later, Arthur abandoned the tea and decided to just drink straight from the flask. No need to be a gentleman alone in your own home. He sighed contentedly after a long draught, the room taking on a heavy blur.

_Much better, _he thought, dozing off in the comfort of the armchair before the TV.

* * *

><p>Arthur glared blearily through the grimy window above the sink as he washed his hands. He'd woken up to a darkened room and his lap and hands soaked from the flask, with the telly still buzzing loudly in it's age.<p>

He dried his hands on a faded towel and skirted round a stack of Royal family photo albums on a chair to get to the back door. When he finally forced the skeleton key to turn in the lock, he pulled the door open despite it's protests and stepped into the overgrown back garden. He felt no need to clear it; he preferred to stay inside as much as possible, and he hated the way the neighbours always tried to make awkward small talk over the waist-high picket fences this district could barely afford. They never stayed long enough in the area for Arthur to make note of them anyway. Or maybe he had just been here a bit too long.

"Hey! You never took my flyer yesterday!" An annoying voice filtered through his ears, almost numbing is brain. He tuned to see the kid leaning over the picket fence of the house to his left, a grin plastered on his face when he saw Arthur's scowl, which deepened when he saw it had no effect on the teen.

"Leave me alone." He replied sourly, already wishing he'd never left the safety of the house to sit in the garden.

"I brought you one anyway. He's always nagging me to get him some more customers and hand flyers round people's houses." The kid continued despite the prolonged glare directed his way.

"Interesting" Arthur muttered in a monotone voice, leaning back in his seat to listen to the leaves rustle in the trees, and block out the voice pestering him.

"Yeah. 'Cept most people just ignore me or send me a weird look." He kept talking despite the fact that Arthur was pointedly ignoring him, and had even closed his eyes to enjoy the sun on his eyelids.

"Can't imagine why." Arthur drawled sarcastically, hoping the teen would get the hint. There was no reply for a while and he dared to open an eye to peek at him, and noticed what he was wearing.

He snorted, "Well maybe if you dressed, ah, a little more this _century _then maybe people wouldn't avoid you like the black plague."

"Hey I never said they avoided me, they just sort of- well you're not exactly the most popular guy on the street either!" He accused, his voice indignant.

Arthur just 'mm-ed' and the boy chuckled, much to his annoyance. There was a silence, and Arthur had almost forgotten the teen was there when he happened to speak again.

"My name's Alfred by the way."

"Why are you still here?" Arthur said exasperatedly, still refusing to acknowledge the boy by opening his eyes.

"What's your name?" Alfred responded, ignoring Arthur's comment. It was like they were having two separate conversations, and Arthur was refusing to relent.

Well, he was, until he received a few pokes to the face.

"Hey, you asleep old man?" Arthur's eyes shot open, and he glared into the face of the blue-eyed teen leaning over him and staring into his face. Arthur could see his indignation reflected in the boy's dated glasses, and he spluttered.

"I am not an old man!" Alfred just snorted as a response and stood straight, Arthur added, "and why are you in my garden? Get out."

"So how old would you be then, dude? I'm guessing like, fifty, what with your freaky accent."

"Yes, because all of the English are fifty years of age."

"Is that like, English sarcasm?"

"It's just sarcasm, you imbecile. Now get out or I will be forced to call the police."

"Wait, so you are English?" He looked genuinely intrigued.

"Can you not _tell_? No wait, get out first!" Arthur demanded, standing to confront the teen.

"Why would I be able to tell?" He looked blankly at Arthur, then his eyes went wide and he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! That explains why you can-"

Arthur interrupted him, at his wits end, and dragged the boy by his faded brown suspenders (Suspenders! in this day and age! …Whatever that happened to be nowadays) out down the side of the house and pushed him onto the street. A woman walking her dog past his decrepit-looking house stopped to stare openly at Arthur, not taking note of the teen flailing about on the floor, his arms waving erratically as he yelled at Arthur.

"Hey, what the hell!" Alfred exclaimed, getting to his feet.

"Stay away from my house and stay away from me. Thank you, and _goodbye_." Arthur said sternly, looking Alfred in the eye and ignoring the woman, then turned and walked back into his house via the open back door.

Alfred had just enough time to yell, "You forgot your flyer!" before a door was slammed for the fourth time that day, by a tired and very irritated Arthur Kirkland.

He sighed heavily, annoyed at having to talk to someone again in the same week- never mind the same day. He'd given up on society and it's many flaws, the way people can't be together without arguing over something. Without fighting and hurting innocent people, hurting them so much they can't even bear to leave their house, or stand to talk to someone for more than 5 minutes…

Arthur started when he realised he had been leaning against the doorframe and sliding down it, until he was kneeling on the floor staring at the carpet. He staggered back to his feet and pulled the curtains above the sink down sharply, backing away and leaning against the kitchen side. He went round the entire house locking windows and closing all the curtains, then bolted both doors securely and went back into the living room. He sighed wearily and ran a hand through his scraggly blond hair, then went to bed.

* * *

><p>It was well past noon before Arthur pulled himself from his bed. The floorboards creaked horrendously as he tiptoed around black bags on his floor to get to the bathroom for a cold shower. 6 minutes later, he descended the stairs and made his morning (or rather, noon) cup of tea, then turned to enter the living room when he suddenly dropped said tea.<p>

"Morning!" It said loudly.

"What the f-" Arthur stammered.

"I was wondering; how come your only waking up at 12? Not very punctual, man." He cut him off. He was still dressed in his strange clothes and wearing the same goofy smile he had the previous day. He looked excited, almost ecstatic and Arthur felt a headache coming on. Hadn't he locked the doors?

"You okay dude?" Alfred said, blinking and leaning towards him. He stepped closer to peer into Arthur's tired green eyes, then testing the temperature of his head with a hand, to which Arthur immediately retreated.

"Don't touch me! How the hell did you get in here?" He was still shocked, and his forehead suddenly cold.

He shrugged and walked round the kitchen and into the living room, then exclaimed "How much crap do you need?" Arthur followed to find him examining a painted Victorian plate covered in dust.

"Don't touch that, you'll break it!" Arthur pulled it from his hands and carefully put it back, then shot Alfred a deep glare. "What do you want? I don't even know you, so why do you keep bothering me?" He tried to keep calm. Strangers breaking into his house was alarming, sure, but Arthur was certain he had seen worse. Done worse.

Alfred just shrugged again. "You talked to me."

"I didn't talk to you, and that doesn't give you an excuse to stalk me and vandalise my property!" Arthur's voice grew louder.

"I didn't vandalise it, you left your back door unlocked." Alfred replied absently turning away to look at the small television.

"I most certainly did not." Arthur growled. He knows he didn't, he was certain, absolutely positive- yet here was a teenager in his living room, prodding his telly, no less.

"How does this thing work?" He said interestedly.

"What? You turn the switch here, look." He flicked a small switch and Alfred yelled "Wow!" so loud that Arthur winced. Had he not seen a TV before? He hated to admit he was slightly intrigued by the boy, but that was not enough to make up for harassing him in his own home.

"Look! There are people talking on this! It's like a radio." His face was lit up by the black and white picture, and Arthur found his mouth slightly agape. He was sure there were TV's in other people's houses. He could sometimes see the neighbours' through their glass back door- and that one was all flat, and the image was coloured and clear.

He shook his head and pulled the teen to his feet. "You need to go. I don't want visitors."

"Ah, come on man, don't be like that." he whined as Arthur kept pushing him to the front door.

"I don't like kids, I don't like Americans, and I certainly don't like American kids."

"I'm not a kid! I'm nineteen!" He protested childishly, his chin stuck out.

"Exactly my point." Arthur said curtly, skirting them round the weak coffee table.

"Just 'cause you're old you think you can treat everyone younger than you like a kid!"

"And just because you're a teenager you think everyone older than you is an old fogey, so be quiet." They reached the front door and Arthur began the process of unbolting when Alfred whined and complained, then tried pulling Arthur away from the door.

"Come on man, you're like me, right? You must be otherwise you wouldn't-"

"Goodbye, Alfred!" He finished the bolts, then threw the Yank through the door and watched him sprawl out across his dying lawn.

"You're heartless, man! Help a poor guy out will ya?" The teen pleaded, coming up onto his knees while Arthur watched indifferently, appalled at the desecration of his mother tongue.

A man was crossing the street, and looked at Arthur when he replied to Alfred, "Stop bothering me or I really will call the police!"

The man had stopped walking, and stepped slightly forward to say, "I'm sorry, sir?"

He didn't reply, just slammed the door once more and went back to the kitchen to clean up the tea he dropped.

When a fresh cup had been made, he double checked the lock on both doors, then slumped back down in front of the TV. Damn kids and their persistence. Reminded him of a boy he knew a long time ago; always nagging for his attention. He was the neighbour's kid. Or maybe he was a cousin? No wait, he was sure he remembered he had a younger brother…

Ah well, no point dwelling on the past.

He sat watching whatever it was that the TV was showing while he sewed a new pattern on his yellowed cloth, enormous brows furrowed in concentration. He spent the day like that; only moving when he strictly needed to, until the grandfather clock shoved in the corner of the room read six o'clock. He got up to make another cup of tea, and was returning to the his seat when he thought he saw a shadow move across the front window.

He approached in carefully, expertly traversing the mess and peeled back the curtains to peer through the moulded net. He gaped. Alfred was sat on the curb outside his house, staring fixedly at the cement while peeking a look over his shoulder every now and then. He caught sight of Arthur scowling, then a huge smile graced his features and he waved.

He let out an involuntary growl, and pulled the curtains closed just as the doorbell rang five times in a row, accompanied by a sharp rapping of a fist. Yanking the door open, he opened his mouth to yell as much profanities as it took to keep the teen away, but Alfred spoke first.

"Can I just talk to you for a minute? Please?" He looked a little lost and uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"I don't want to hear it." He wanted to close the door, but his curiosity slowed his hand. He hadn't seen the boy so antsy before, he had thought he was on some sort of permanent high.

"But there's no one else, man! Just hear me out, come on, England?" He pleaded.

"What did you call me?" He scowled.

"England, seeing as you wont tell me your name and you're English." His trademark grin lit his face up, and he let out an annoying laugh.

"Original," he replied sardonically, then he really did shut the door. Well, slammed it.

* * *

><p>The next day, Arthur decided to open the curtains again to lighten the rooms, in a vain attempt to lighten his sour mood. When he reached the living room curtains, he seethed when he saw Alfred sitting on the same part of the curb, throwing the same furtive glances over his shoulder at the house. He blew out a gust of air and kept the curtains shut, then returned to the television.<p>

All week he spotted Alfred sitting there, sometimes pacing around the pavement, but never moving away from the house. He was there when Arthur woke up, and when he went to bed, and he briefly wondered if he actually even left in the night. But he must do, right? Every time after that when Arthur looked out the window, he saw Alfred sitting there, in the exact same spot.

One particularly cold Sunday evening, Arthur was reading through Jane Eyre for the umpteenth time and decided to take a testing look out the window. Predictably, Alfred was still sat there, almost looking unaffected by the cold. Snow had started that morning and Arthur could see layers of frost over Alfred's clothes and hair, and couldn't keep away a nagging feeling of sympathy.

He set the book down and approached the front door reluctantly, almost not believing what he was considering. He stood at the door for several minutes having an inward debate, to which he lost (and therefore won) and opened the door slowly to look at teen. Alfred didn't notice for a while, the light from Arthur's hallway not reaching where he sat, until Arthur spoke.

"Are you going to sit there all night? My house is getting cold."

Alfred jumped and swivelled round to glare at Arthur. "You took your time! It's freezing out here ya know!"

Arthur just snorted and went to close the door, when Alfred jumped up and ran at him. "No wait, wait, seriously England wait a minute!" He stuck his foot in the door and Arthur fixed him with an indifferent stare. How many years had he spent ignoring people? And one stupid teenager was making his feel sympathy.

"My name is not England, it's Arthur." He said obstinately, not quite trying to remove the foot from the door.

"Right, Arthur England."

"Kirkland! Arthur bloody Kirkland!" He huffed, then shook his head. "If you wont leave me alone- Well, just come in for a minute-"

"Great! Thanks, man." Alfred barged into the house and immediately dropped unceremoniously onto the sofa. Arthur closed the door quickly, and came into the living room.

"I said just one minute! Don't make yourself comfortable." His hands were on his hips and he was scolding Alfred like a child, something the latter picked up on.

"Why do you always treat me like such a kid? You're old, but you're not _that_ old." His arms were on the back of the sofa, his legs propped up on the plush foot rest.

"I'm not old at all!" He frowned. That wasn't strictly true, he thought.

"So how old is 'not old at all'?" Alfred asked, his annoying cowlick bobbing obnoxiously.

"I'm…I don't-" He stuttered.

"What? Can't hear you, England." Alfred smirked, eyes flashing with some knowledge to which Arthur was oblivious.

"I don't really know, alright? Now just tell me what you want so you can leave and we can both get on with our lives." He was regretting inviting him in, and was suddenly self-conscious. He hadn't needed to talk about himself in so long, he didn't realise how rusty he was.

"How can you not know? Well I guess I'm not really sure myself, but at least I have an excuse." He ignored Arthur's last statement and stared with a nostalgic sense at nothing in particular.

"You said you were nineteen." Arthur blurted, not sure why he was humouring him.

"Yeah, I did." He let out that annoying laugh again, and grinned his goofy smile, to which Arthur almost smiled. He stopped himself in time. His childishness was contagious, and Arthur couldn't help but get a little caught up in it all.

"So what's your excuse then?" He demanded, berating himself inwardly for his interest.

Alfred shifted slightly on the sofa, "Well, haven't been reminded in a while."

Arthur blinked and scowled. Now Alfred really was a strange individual, which was bad for Arthur, who seemed to attract only the strangest people. Or creatures, if his memory served.

"So tell us 'bout yourself then, England." He smirked, and looked expectantly up at the frowning male.

"Arthur." He responded.

"Interesting. Anything else?" Alfred was still grinning.

"What's it to you?" He didn't divulge information to anyone, least of all strangers who brought up memories of an annoying…cousin? Brother? He didn't even know anymore, and he briefly wondered if that should be worrying him.

"So, like, I mean tell me why you're doing this?" He said, his gaze sharpening.

"Excuse me?" Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"Arthur," he pleaded suddenly, "Why are you doing this? Please, Arthur, don't do this anymore." His image was blurring, and Arthur staggered a bit to stay upright. What was he talking about? He seemed to completely change in a mere few seconds, from an arrogant and exuberant teen, to a desperate and lost child.

"…Arthur…" His face wavered before him, and screams echoed in his mind. Sudden familiar crushing disappointment and self loathing ate away at him, and he felt his knees weaken.

The room disappeared and returned just as suddenly, and Alfred swam in and out of focus. Arthur gasped "What are you doing?" But only a muffled slur came out, and Arthur realised the carpet was pressed against his groggy mouth as he slowly faded from consciousness. His last sense only managed to pick up on a faint foreign sound, almost a whisper;

"…Please don't leave me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Sorry forgot about the page breaks. Please review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Yeah, sorry it's been a while. Every time I came back to this I kept wondering whether to just scrap it, but I thought I should finish it. I also kept getting conflicted about Arthur's personality, which is actually quite hard to get right. I rarely see it done accurately, and although I can't do it myself I don't think it's enough of a reason to stop writing. So here ye go.**  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 2<strong>_

An irritated groan was the first thing Arthur heard as his mind started to clear, and it got louder and his headache returned. He was just about to open his mouth and tell whoever it was to shut the hell up, when he realised it was already open- and it was emitting a pained noise. Oh.

"..Aul..fghd?" He spluttered groggily. There was no answer.

He raised a hand to his pounding head and slowly sat up, gauging his surroundings. He was in his room on his bed, but as to how he got there, his mind could only jump to Alfred. Said American was nowhere to be seen. Typical, just when he wanted to chastise him.

He swung his legs to the side of the bed and immediately lost balance, and practically crashed his torso into the bedside table. He slowly pulled his face away from the Elizabethan candle holders, and tested his feet again. They were slow to respond and Arthur felt as though he's been drugged. Had Alfred done this? But he hadn't drank or eaten anything with him there…Or even when he wasn't, aside from tea.

He tested his footing, and pulled himself up with anything he could reach. His body felt detached from his mind, and he almost panicked at the way he couldn't feel everything like before. When he had managed to stagger all the way down the stairs, he stumbled into the living room to find the annoying teenager staring at one of the boxes of antiques on the floor. He turned slowly when he heard Arthur's slightly laboured breathing, and he looked almost grim. But nonetheless, he flashed his 1000 watt smile at Arthur's frown, genuine despite the odd look in his blue eyes.

"Wakey wakey, sleepy head!" He grinned.

"Before, I thought you were a git. Now, I know you're a bloody lunatic." He narrowed his eyes, ashamed he had let his guard down.

"What are you on about?" He waved his hands around boisterously.

"What happened to me? What did you do?" He demanded, irritation growing as Alfred stood with his hands on his hips, looking at Arthur in a way that almost said 'Why are you questioning me? '_The nerve!, _he thought.

"You got tired and fell asleep. Anyway, I was looking at these photos and stuff, and I was wondering where you got it all?" He looked expectantly at Arthur after examining a random faded photo, an obvious attempt at distraction.

"I did not fall asleep. You did something. I heard…" What exactly did he hear? The more he thought about it, the harder it was to remember.

Alfred was picking the cardboard corner of a box absently, staring at nothing with an unreadable expression on his face. He perked up fast, though.

"So, er, anyway. Are you gonna go to my brother's coffee shop or what? I left the flyer here from last time-"

"No. When I said get out, I meant it." Arthur glared the American down, sick of his antics but drawn to them just as much. It made him uneasy.

"You also said you'd call the police, but you never did." Alfred smiled again, "You don't even own a phone."

Arthur continued glaring. So the teen had searched his house, which was pretty disturbing in itself. It was the calming aura he exuded that, ironically, was the most disturbing. He had a warm smile and a jovial personality, and was naturally a kind person that put everyone around him at ease. Arthur was sceptical and wanted to remain angry and suspicious, but Alfred just changes the ambiance completely at his will, knowingly or not.

"Fine. Bloody stay, but don't talk to me and don't touch anything." He wanted the calming atmosphere, but he didn't want the strange occurrences or the painful memories. He couldn't win, but Alfred wouldn't leave anyway.

He shuffled over to his armchair, and slumped into it while Alfred just stood watching him. He awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot, then tried making conversation.

"So, you don't get out much, huh?" He looked up at Arthur but his head was still down, giving him some sort of kicked puppy look.

"Hmph. Says you. Ever heard of changing your clothes?" Arthur ran his eyes over the strange clothing he was still wearing.

"Well your clothes are weird too. Have you seen what people are wearing nowadays? Shorts, man. And jackets."

Arthur just snorted. He couldn't care less what people were wearing, they all looked strange and the fashions seemed to change like the weather, if the neighbours' clothes were anything to go by. Admittedly, he hadn't been out very recently to determine if this was accurate, but why should he? He was fine where he was. He was safe here.

"I wish I could have one of those bomber jackets though, they look so cool…" His eyes were distant and Arthur noted that he hadn't even been watching the television at all; the boy was too interesting, despite his own distrustful nature.

Alfred caught himself after a while and sat on the sofa beside the TV, opposite Arthur. He continued when Arthur didn't speak, "Aren't you hungry? You've been out for almost a whole day." He turned his head sideways at the Englishman, who blinked in response.

"..So?" He finally managed.

Alfred snorted. "So, as in maybe it's about time to eat?" With that he hopped up and bounced into the kitchen, and Arthur jumped to follow, not happy about the intrusion.

He skidded to a halt in front of the top cupboards, making white streaks in the dirty floor. Before Arthur could do anything, the teen yanked open the doors and his mouth set itself in a curious purse line.

"…Hmm, where's your food?" He looked over his shoulder to pierce Arthur with his stare, and he felt uncomfortable.

"Must have run out," he muttered.

He turned towards him completely, still watching. "How long ago?" His voice had switched, no longer bright and excitable, but low and serious.

Arthur shook his head. "What does it matter? This is none of your business." He said the words, but he now wondered himself. He thought he did have food, everyone had food in their kitchen. He didn't feel hungry, so there was no problem.

Alfred just smiled.

They spent the rest of the day ignoring each other. Or rather, Arthur ignored Alfred while he chatted animatedly about nothing and everything. At regular intervals, Arthur threatened Alfred with disease, death or some other horrible ailment, but Alfred continued until Arthur was commenting instead on how stupid everything was. Alfred seemed much too happy for a teen stuck in an ancient house, with a twenty-something year-old Briton who acted like an old man. But neither complained. Well, not seriously, not anymore.

It was past eleven o'clock when Arthur remembered himself, and stood to go to bed. When he told this to Alfred, the American had the odd glint back in his eye, and said,

"Why?"

To which Arthur frowned, and said, "Because I need sleep, you twit."

"Like you need food?" His smirk grew, and he puffed out some air when Arthur tried to explain again. Alfred said suddenly, "Arthur," and looked him dead in the eye.

Arthur shut his mouth quickly, then tried to read the face the boy was making and recognising it from the night before. He said irritably, "What?"

"You don't think any of this is a little strange?" He gestured wildly around him for effect.

"I think you being here is a little strange. Why don't you go back to your family, hm? Or your brother, if he's nagging you so much."

Alfred just smiled and said quietly, "Because I can't."

Arthur snorted, uncharacteristically missing the atmosphere. "That's convenient."

"Actually, it's pretty inconvenient. But at least I have company now." He let out that annoying laugh and Arthur peered at him from the corner of his eye. "Nah, I was actually talking about your house. You should get some air, it's unhealthy to be cooped up all the time, man." He jumped up enthusiastically, and Arthur just grumbled and went to the stairs.

He ignored Alfred's protests and continued up to his room. He also ignored the fact that he wasn't really tired, now that he thought about it. He went to sleep everyday- because he had for as long as he could remember. But Alfred was really making him wonder.

Shutting his bedroom door in Alfred's whining face, Arthur made himself comfortable to went to sleep. Some part, a very angry and logical part, was screaming at him for going to sleep when there was a stranger in his house. Yet, another part told him he was completely and utterly harmless, and this particular thought is what allowed Arthur to sleep without worry. Aside from the worry for thinking these absurd thoughts, of course.

By the morning, he had almost forgotten the previous night's events. He would have forgotten entirely if there wasn't a loud and singing reminder dancing around his kitchen. Arthur stood in the doorway watching, and when Alfred finally noticed him, he immediately thrust a cup of tea in his face and grinned like a maniac.

"Hey!" He said.

Arthur took the cup silently, but didn't drink. He wasn't completely without sense yet. "You're still here." He replied.

Alfred sighed almost impatiently, and said "I told you, I have no where else to go."

"You get kicked out of your house?" Arthur raised an enormous eyebrow.

"Nah, it's more like everyone else moved out, really." He laughed at some inside joke, and then clapped his hands together with finality. "So! What's on the agenda today?"

Arthur continued glaring and said nothing. He had been hoping he would have left in the night. This wasn't an orphanage for childish adults who evidently couldn't face reality.

So Alfred spoke again. "I was thinking of going to my brother's-"

"I don't like coffee," he interrupted.

"Well, they'll have tea!" he countered.

"But the shop will smell like coffee." Arthur tried not to smirk at Alfred actually humouring the conversation.

"We can sit outside."

"I like to be inside."

Alfred huffed and crossed his arms. "You're trying to be difficult. It just had to be _you_, didn't it…" He mumbled to himself, and Arthur continued watching, curious.

Alfred bit his lip, and looked back to Arthur with some sort of determination. "Why are you in America, by the way? Don't you have any family?"

"So we're back to the questions." Arthur stated, then said, "No, I don't." Oddly, he wasn't completely convinced that that was true.

And unfortunately, Alfred seemed to know this. "Are you sure 'bout that?"

Arthur didn't answer this time, and the two had something like a stare-down. To which Alfred somehow won by bursting out laughing.

"Do you wanna ask me some questions too? An answer for an answer?" He said.

"No. I want you to leave me alone. You already know that I have no phone and I wont go outside, so in effect, I can't really get you to leave without force."

"But force isn't your thing, huh?" Alfred smiled, too into the conversation. It was like he hadn't talked to someone for so long he didn't know how to do it properly. A lot like Arthur.

"Right. Not anymore, anyway." Arthur added, trying hard not to think about the meaning of his words.

"So let's make a deal." He laughed at the eyebrow raised by the Englishman, and took it as a cue to continue. "You answer three simple questions and I'm gone. 'Kay?"

Arthur pursed his lips, a finger tapping against the mug in his hands. "Fine," he said bitingly. If he had to give up a few personal details, so be it. At least he could properly board the house up so he could never return, and then he would never open the door again.

"Good. So, will you answer my three questions correctly?" He smiled innocently, while Arthur just glared. _He means 'honestly', illiterate moron._

"What game are you playing?"

"Just answer, Artie."

After huffing at the annoying nickname, he said, "Well, yes."

"Are you lonely now?" He kept his eyes fixed on his face, waiting for any expression that could reveal himself.

"No." He crossed his arms, scowling at the intrusive questions.

"Do you like being lonely?" His blue eyes increased in intensity, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably.

He glared back, and considered his answer. He could answer falsely, the answer that would most suit a recluse living alone for countless years on end. The answer that, in his eyes, justifies turning anyone and everyone away for the sake of his own bitter and stubborn nature. But Arthur couldn't see why that was necessary. Arthur did like being alone, and he also knew that whoever Alfred was, there was nothing he could do to change history. Alfred seemed like a flimsy figment of the atmosphere, almost like another ornament cluttering the living room. The ease at which Alfred put himself in situations without regret almost made Arthur dismiss the audacity of it all. So he decided to answer truthfully.

"No. I don't."

When Alfred proceeded to smile triumphantly, Arthur raised an eyebrow again. "Are you going to finish your questions?"

"Do you want me to stay?" Alfred asked with an annoying grin.

"Obviously not", Arthur scoffed.

"You said you'd answer all three questions correctly, dude", Alfred said, a triumphant spark igniting his eyes.

"And I did."

"But I asked four questions. So, including the first one, you've answered three correctly, and the fourth wrongly." He laughed, and then grinned while he watched Arthur fume.

He said nothing for a moment. He was a little intrigued that Alfred had set some sort of trick, albeit completely half-arsed and pretty pointless.

"I think I've tolerated this long enough. It's time for you to go." His green eyes pierced Alfred with an unsympathetic look as he frowned. His patience with the American ended when he got personal. Arthur wouldn't admit these things willingly, and he wouldn't permit them being bribed out of him with empty words.

"Ahh, come on man, I got you beat." Alfred pleaded.

"Ignoring your demonstration of grammar slaughter, you do not 'have me beat'- because this my house, where I apply my rules. So sod off." With that he began ushering him out once more, frustration growing at the resistance until he firmly grasped both arms and dragged him all the way to the door. Arthur was acutely aware that in reality, he should technically be a lot weaker than the teen, but somehow managed the feat and threw the American from his house once again. Rain assaulted the streets and drenched Alfred in seconds, grey sheets flying through the air.

The reaction this time was different. There was no pouting scowl or frustrated smirk, just a pained and desperate child.

"Why are you doing this? Do you love misery or something? Why wont you let me help you!" The last was no question, just an accusation. And screech of it set Arthur on edge, but not enough to stop his equally annoyed and distressed reply.

"I don't need or want your help. Why don't you sort yourself out before you come bothering me." His face was hard. He pushed his conflicted feelings and guilt aside to focus on what he needed to do. The American was wasting both of their time, and obviously had some sort of hero complex.

"Well maybe I need your help too, you bitter, miserable old man." He stalked away, and with a torrent of silver rain, Arthur blinked several times to keep him in sight, and failed. He couldn't reply and wouldn't call out, no matter how irritating the nagging feeling of worry was becoming within him. He closed the door curtly, and stared at the paint for several minutes too long.

What had he meant 'I need your help too'? Surely he couldn't be referring to that poxy coffee shop he's been banging on about? Arthur frowned as he tried not to remember Alfred's distraught face.

_Well so what. He's broken in several times, and harassed me. Besides the point, everyone has problems, why should his take any priority?_

Despite his thoughts, Arthur couldn't help wondering If he had been too caught up in his own selfish problems to consider that Alfred may have had his own. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed likely. After all, he was spending his time persisting in Arthur's company and not with his family. There was something wrong there, right?

Either way, he was also glad he was gone. Now things could return to normal. Because that is what he wanted- _wants_.

Still, his mind just wouldn't leave it alone, and he never got any sleep that night. Or the next.

Or the next.

What was wrong with him?

He traipsed into the kitchen, barely registering the fact he was wide awake and full focussed. When wasn't he? He couldn't remember. He pulled open a few cupboard doors, watching aged cobwebs fall down under the pressure of dust. When was he hungry? He still couldn't remember.

What was wrong with him?

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><p><em>Thanks for the reviews, really. Tell me what you honestly think, thanks! :D<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

He studied the moulded carpet under a pile of toppled records. A carpet worn and dirty, faded and frayed, haggard, dreary, unknown to the world.

Old.

The cup in his hands was sliding slowly, until it eventually slipped and fell. It's contents poured out onto that carpet, sullying it further. The carpet's near useless, it might as well be thrown away, really. But Arthur couldn't do it. He didn't want to throw it away, and he knew he never would.

He wouldn't throw anything away. He never had.

Piles of objects surrounded him each and everyday. His life, his routine, never changed, neither did his possessions- not counting the delivery of items sent to him from deceased family members. And they had stopped…some time ago. Nothing changes, and nothing changes him.

Except that American. And now he was gone.

Arthur bowed his head slightly, staring more deeply at that abhorrent carpet. His small frame sank wearily under a pressure he couldn't name and his hands hung limp between his knees, a perpetual feeling of despair gripped him and a weary sigh escaped his aching body.

What had Alfred done to him? He was never depressed before, he hadn't even questioned this life. But what now? A few visits and he flips everything upside down. It's not just his personality either, it's the new perspective he's give him. Something is seriously wrong.

Before he knew it, it was pitch black, and as he sat there not moving unless he had to, it was suddenly light again. The glare filtered through his faded curtains, filling the room with a washed out colour and falling upon his ragged hair.

The door creaked in protest at being flung so violently open, and in a flash Arthur had stomped over the threshold and was making his way down the street, obnoxious poster in hand. He would go to that damn cafe, and he would ask for that damn boy, and he would give him what for! He ignored the surprised stares he received from his neighbours that he'd never met, from pedestrians that weren't even local, hell even the pets and animals seemed to stare as if his entire _being _didn't belong.

He didn't notice the freakish clothes they seemed to wear and barely acknowledged the alien vehicles flying down the road beside him. The world barely reached him until he came to a stop outside a building, the address exactly what was printed on the paper before him. He read the gaudy sign in doubt: McDonalds. It didn't look much like a café, he had read about them, and they didn't sound anything like this. Regardless he slowly made his way to the- glass door? He didn't know they existed. Everything seemed so odd. He only then realised where he was.

And he had no idea where that was any more.

He was trembling now, his body trying not to go into shock. His legs shook, and he was sweating profusely. One glance into the mirror wall (a mirror wall?) inside the restaurant reflected his pasty white face. The customers openly watched him, and with a fleeting look at the bright décor and the colourfully dressed humans placed around him, he backed into a partition (which was seemingly there for no explicable reason) and slid down it, legs finally failing him. He sat there staring at his knees, at his worn trousers that he had taken from a bag sent to him by a deceased- …great grandfather, he didn't know.

Eventually someone came over to him cautiously, with a shiny badge attached to their front. Arthur fixed his eyes on it to drown out all thought and sound. It read 'Matthew'.

"…ear here, sir? Um, sir?" His whispery voice caught his attention finally, and Arthur raised doe eyes but avoided Matthew's violet ones, and asked "Does Alfred work here?"

The boy blinked, and said "Yeah, are you a friend? I'll get him for you, why don't you sit down?" He carefully helped him from the floor, and deposited Arthur to the side in one of the open booths. He wrung his hands once, then quickly walked away. Arthur nervously clutched the strange smooth seat beneath him, baffled as to why such an uncomfortable material was used for a restaurant seat. That was one of the many things plaguing his mind, but he wouldn't focus on anything important yet. His mind would probably break.

Soon, someone came into his vision from the right, and sat down warily opposite Arthur.

Alfred.

"Hey! Erm, you needed me?" The young man wasn't nervous, he was just as boisterous as always, but something was bothering Arthur.

"What is going on Alfred?" He whispered breathily, wide eyes still dragging themselves painfully slowly across everything around him.

"I don't know what you mean. Listen do I, er, know you from somewhere?" He was watching Arthur carefully, as if he thought he would shatter at any moment. Their eyes met solidly, and both of them gaped ever so slightly. They both saw something they knew all too well. Age.

"I don't know you at all." Arthur said. And it was true, at least partially. He knew that boy that had been hounding him for these past few weeks, and he knew his mannerisms, but _this_ boy, this _man_-

Alfred stayed silent, what was he supposed to say after all? He was a bit unnerved to say the least. Some guy looking like he'd sprung straight from the 50's, or 20's, or hell, eighteenth century, (he couldn't tell with his mismatched clothes), stumbling in and requesting to see him- what was he meant to do?

"Where do you live, should I call your family?" Alfred tilted his head slightly, concern radiating from blue eyes.

Arthur shook his head, "I don't have any family, they died…a long time ago." He let his gaze wander, but didn't want to see anything, especially not those eyes.

But he saw another, a pair of vaguely familiar violet ones, the face they belonged to smiling serenely at another boy beside him just outside the restaurant. That boy, Arthur noticed with a crushing feeling of madness, was Alfred.

He looked back at the other one if front of him.

Alfred said nothing for a while, staring into Arthur's green eyes until the latter flinched and looked down. Alfred spoke, "You must be…Arthur." Arthur raised his head questioningly, and saw pity reflected back at him. "Francis will be happy", he chuckled.

He wanted to ask Alfred what he was talking about, but his energy seemed to dissipate. The boys outside watched him, smiling almost reassuringly, touched with a hint of sadness much like Alfred's.

"I need to talk to you about something, Arthur" Alfred said quietly, "You might be a bit shocked, I…Well, there's a lot to say."

And that was the day Arthur learned the truth. In someone's apartment, on someone's sofa, everything was explained by the blue-eyed stranger Alfred. Some was told by Matthew, his brother, and at one point a French man explained some, calmly taking his hand in his own until Arthur pulled it away in silence.

Arthur could said nothing, he was shocked and he certainly didn't understand how this could possibly be real.

He didn't speak at all, and one night someone came to him, dressed in nothing but rags and patches. It was then, after staring mutely at his own self, at his own sad eyes, that he fainted. And when he woke his mind was clear.

He wasn't Arthur Kirkland, not anymore. The real Arthur was dead and gone, his remains lying in a heap in a box in Arthur's loft, his ghost finally visiting him in this apartment. And Alfred wasn't real, and hadn't been for years. He was dead, and his ghost was what he had been talking to all that time.

He wasn't even human. He was a nation, these people were all nations, and they had been in existence for hundreds of years- in his case, thousands. They came into existence once their human hosts were killed by the beings inside them.

No, he wasn't Arthur Kirkland anymore. He was a personified nation that has finally been discovered by America. He was England.

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><p><em>Been quite a while. It's finished now though, sorry I haven't updated, I've been busy and blah blah depressed and such. I wont elaborate and stuff because it seems everyone here does that a little too much perhaps, but hey there is your excuse. <em>

_Please review, I'd like to know how much I'd bollocksed the ending up so I can eventually fix it._


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